


Stuck In Gravity

by JuxtaposedNova



Category: Open Heart (Visual Novels)
Genre: Angst, Character Analysis, Character Study, Complex Relationship, Drunken Confessions, Drunkenness, Emotional Hurt, F/M, Hurt, Hurt No Comfort, Implied Voyeurism, Mentor/Protégé, Mutual Pining, Open Heart fanfiction, Pining, References to Depression, implied exhibitionism, no beta we die like spartans, use of alcohol
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-03
Updated: 2021-03-03
Packaged: 2021-03-16 12:40:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29825076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JuxtaposedNova/pseuds/JuxtaposedNova
Summary: After Ethan leaves for the Amazon, Calypso is left with nothing but a gallery of memories and the ruminating abilities of her scorned and yearning heart.
Relationships: Ethan Ramsey/Main Character (Open Heart), Ethan Ramsey/Original Female Character(s)
Kudos: 2





	Stuck In Gravity

**Author's Note:**

> I'm stuck in gravity, I'm far from where I wanna be. I'm like a raindrop in the ocean, I get lost in my delusional reality. Yeah, this high, high love that you give to me is dripping down my hands like honey.
> 
> If you like the story, feel free to leave kudos or a comment.
> 
> Enjoy!

* * *

A cold cup of coffee with salt, her passport, and a need to cry rested on her nightstand, illuminated by nothing but busy city lights dictating the entropy of a convoluted human assemblage.

Row after row of colour reflecting against the glass of her window, a shelving of lanterns displayed as if she could just reach for one and pluck it from an orchard of stars – welcomed her as she stumbled into her bedroom with her heels in hand.

The laughter of her friends echoed through her head painfully, bouncing inside of empty cabinets that were once filled with the chemicals that made her laugh too. Alcohol decorated every breath she took, scenting the room with the emotions that forced her dawn to waken with the covers of a man’s twilight.

A man whose name had been branded deep into her every cell.

Hatred, anger, grief – they bathed her lovingly with milky waters and glittering champagne, reaching so high they forgot that one day vertigo would take hold.

One by one, her clothing was carelessly thrown into the hamper until the pores of her body rose to meet the air that greeted them. There was no design that fit her better than the one of her skin set to her shape – as if she could fill herself with nakedness to dress her insides.

Implicit memory alone walked her to the foot of her bed, gently pushing her down as if her bedsheets reached out to keep her. Turning her head to the side, her necklace dragging along her collarbone, she watched her reflection with fascination.

Ebony curls sprawled in every direction, drawn by gravity’s downward pull. Her make-up gleamed, lips tinted by the taste of wine and a buzzing detachment from her physical form.

Long ago, she had discovered that looking into the mirror to find a kaleidoscope of movement staring back at her while in the throes of passion brought her a similar feeling. For she didn’t desire the body of a lover, but her own – repeatedly unearthed, the closest, the strangest and the most exciting. A layer of drops on her dermis promised to her halcyon flirting, the mere promise of sex without a guarantee.

Until Ethan.

Her body remembered better than her conscious mind, whispering and hushing things to her in the stark – preaching that touch was enough to convince herself that the past and the future had merged to meet them there. She had inhaled him until the smell of wine blood overflowing from the corners of her mind had spilled like a glass that had fallen to the side.

Consenting to the exclusivity of his embrace, she had agreed to be his. There would always be an infinite number of unrealized lovers out there, yearning for her – but she’d belong to him. It had been a surrendering of power she had never granted to anyone else. 

Love didn’t manifest in the desire to sleep with someone, but in the desire to sleep beside someone and wake up to them.

She had known she loved him when she had looked in the mirror during their lovemaking and stared at him instead of herself. As if the only naked body she’d ever see, and feel inside of her, in the mirror, would be his. He’d be the only man to share her bed for as long as he desired to do so, for as long as he desired her as much as she did. It came with unspoken reciprocity.

A reciprocity that burned with the pain of his absence, with the knowledge that yesterday’s moons were gone.

Every revelation was obsessed with discovering him, within possibility and accidents, eventualities, and stellar shocks. The chance of seeing him escaping as if they were two skies under the same map, the same thirst with a different palate.

Yet, as their coordinates continued gyrating, she wondered if all it would take for them to meet again was to walk backwards.

So, she had filled her suitcase with books that spoke of the things she had never said, drawn his smile beside hers and slept with the pillow that had absorbed his scent underneath her chin. She had seen his face in crystals, recognizing him in the sun’s reflection.

Sought him out in the night, finding him in dreams. Stolen bits from time to understand how much a moment was truly worth. Hung from the wind and stared at a world so different without him in it. Slept in the nest where the universe rested with his laughter decorating her silence. Placed the sea at the edge of his kisses and carried rain in case thirst ailed them both.

Written things in letters so she would never have to utter them, and songs she composed to repeat them so that they remained with her when he was gone. Feelings anchored despite the rushing of time. Her delusion had stumbled to follow him wherever he went, protecting him in a corner of her skin and unpacking their shared reality in case he wanted it again. 

Instead of begging for him to take it away, she had cradled it close to her.

Allowed it to morph into whatever it desired, be it good or bad. If he wasn’t there to witness it, there was no point in masking it. To him, whom rigor and melancholy had passed by. To him, who liked to be a martyr, spreading guilt that belonged to him only.

And to her, who had lacked the courage to fight, consoling herself with covering the prints of his kisses with Guerlain. To her, so deaf and resigned, that slept with her pride and let herself be touched by cheap resentment.

Anger had consumed her at his departure, his lack of communication, his cold indifference. They had shared more than a secret and orgasms – and he had reduced her to a dalliance that wouldn’t survive the scrutiny of daylight, as if love and lust could not exist under one roof. Eroticism was not always politically correct, and most people were aroused by the very things they demonstrated against during the day.

It brought forth the question of whether the coinciding in their life depended on secrecy to survive. It was puzzling and fascinating how the very ingredients that nurtured love were sometimes the very objects that stifled desire. It was the erotic space that belonged to them; to her, to him, to them as an entity.

Foreplay began at the end of the previous orgasm, not a couple of minutes before they connected. It was the lingering looks they shared, the magnetic energy of parallel bodies, the fact that they knew something no one else did. 

Would their passion wax and wane like the moon if they loved in the cognizance of all? Desire needed space, where the person that was so known, so familiar, was momentarily once again somewhat mysterious, somewhat elusive. It was in that space between the _me_ and the _other_ that lay the erotic elán, the movement toward the other.

In many ways, their arrangement had worked, because they each had a lot of freedom. They could fuck, and then go to another’s arms if they so desired – but they didn’t. It was dyadic, even though it was de facto triangular – where they loved one another, through physical demonstrations alone, but the third part of the equation was an addition of the consequences that would surely arise if their love was to be revealed.

If revealed, would the ingredients of love smother desire? She got the lust without the laundry, but she lived without legitimacy. She felt special because he went to unimaginable lengths to see her but devalued by remaining unseen by others.

For better or for worse, their relationship had begun in secret, and would always be influenced by its origins.

She kept herself busy with work and friends, enjoying the attention of men and women who had expressed a romantic interest to prove herself that she was desired. She was making sure that by the time he returned, he’d know that plenty were willing to take his place. He’d be stricken with the words of others who saw what he did. He’d be haunted by her. 

It was childish, she knew, but she was playing with fire knowing she’d get burnt. It was her who was haunted by him – left to wonder if he agonized the same way.

Because she was curious to know if he’d express jealousy.

Desperate to know he loathed the idea of another touching her where he had once mapped her entire body with nothing but his fingertips.

If they cracked the fiction, stopped protecting it, they could begin to craft a more truthful narrative together – capturing what they’d miss, what they cherished, what they took responsibility for, what they wished for one another.

But the loss of him left her with nothing but the solace of the memories they shared together.

It hadn’t allowed her to honour the riches of their relationship, to mourn the pain of loss, and to mark its legacy. No one else would ever share the particular meanings some everyday things held for them: like the espresso Romano, like their shared love for strong alcohol, or the way his stubble tickled her when he kissed her. The way her eyes would narrow when she challenged him. The singing of opera, and the emotions it conveyed. The vulnerability, the fear, the bleeding.

She curled into herself, bare and raw, digging her fingers into her skin to try and tear out the shadow that attached itself to her like a second layer.

A plane waited for her in the morning, and she’d be far away from everything that reminded her of Ethan. Everything but her mind reminding her of how deep his laugh was, or how soft his hands were against hers. The battle of wits, the connection of the viewing deep into each other, the challenging of every definition they both knew.

They would both eventually return, pulled back by the place that had birthed their story, and only time would vindicate the future of what they had shared.

The screen of her phone lit up, but she already knew it wasn’t him.

**Author's Note:**

> If you wish to read my stories before I post them here, find me on Tumblr:
> 
> https://droppedmydamncroissant.tumblr.com/
> 
> I'll be happy to add you to my tag list.


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